Stockholm Syndrome
by Passionworks
Summary: If the rose truly is such a beautiful, lovely thing, why does it so easily wilt away? Rated for violence and mature sexual content in latter chapters.


**Author's Note: Ever since I stumbled across the memorably horrific case of Jaycee Lee Dugard on the news, I have become quite interested in the seemingly misunderstood disorder that is Stockholm Syndrome. For those who are unaware of what this is exactly, here is my general definition: Stockholm Syndrome is a mental disorder where a human being develops a bizarre "loving" bond with another in often abusive relationship. The term itself was coined by a famous Swedish psychiatrist by the name of Nils Bejerot. On August 23, 1973, two men armed with loaded guns and bold talk walked into a central Stockholm bank and held three women and one man captive. After six days of endless torture, they were freed from their ordeal, but what surprised police on the scene was that the four had allegedly pleaded their allegiance to the criminals. Bejerot was working with the police at the time and he invented what is now called Stockholm Syndrome.**

**The story that I am writing here is a multi-chapter piece that involves four main characteristics of the disorder. The research aspect of it derives from psychologist, Joseph M. Carver's article called ****Love and Stockholm Syndrome: The Mystery of Loving an Abuser.**** This is a must-read for all those interested in learning more. For further information, I would be happy to send a link to the article by PM. I just would like to add that pretty much everything I scribe in this fic will be based off of Carver's work –give him credit, not me. The only feature that is mine is the usage of Ozula through entertaining purposes. I am not copying anything or plagiarizing, I am simply getting the word out about this amazing and odd disorder in a clever and unique way. I do hope that this clears up any confusion that may arise.**

**Carver's article tells us that there are four attributes or conditions to all those who suffer with Stockholm Syndrome. These are:**

**_The presence of a perceived threat to one's physical or psychological survival and the belief that the abuser would carry out the threat._**

**_The presence of a perceived small kindness from the abuser to the victim._**

**_Isolation from perspectives other than those of the abuser._**

**_The perceived inability to escape the situation._**

**Each chapter of this story will center around one of these situations and how they will happen to affect the strange relationship between Ozai and Azula. To add a bit of spice to it, I have decided to use a metaphor –a bit cliché, yes? There is really no need for me to explain this element to my readers –that would devastate the purpose.**

**If there are questions, please ask. Enjoy this –my only wish is that you all learn a little something in the process.**

………

**This is a remarkably old document. I wrote the vast majority of this back in July of 2009, but I lost the document –it was somewhere in my twin sister's login (I honestly have no idea how it got there). Only recently did I find it, so I found the impulse to finish it. Note that this is only the prologue. Five more parts will follow.**

Stockholm Syndrome

Prologue

Oh, how lovely is the red rose. It is the passion and romance that attracts two lonely hearts; it is fertility and splendor, blessing all of those caught in its trance. It is rife, but rich with a rare luxury. What a magnificent flower the rose is. When in bloom, the petals are perfect cuts of rubies that scintillate and shine with Heaven's tears that fall upon them. The water of a simple rain shower quenches its thirst and ripens the hue so marvelously and the dew in the morning is purely luscious, moist and superb. The stem, green as the fresh-cut grass on a summer afternoon, holds the flower high in the peaceful breeze. It never snaps –no, it never breaks apart. It is similar to a beating heart, for it cherishes its roots –its heritage. The shell of the seed is its tiny womb: it splits at birth and grows and blossoms, covering the earth like a blanket of affection and tenderness. A rose bush decorates and embroiders this fertile soil: the image is so memorable like a snapshot forever engraved in the conscience…

………

The sun shines highest this afternoon; it is a warm day –late spring, early summer. The daylight air is slightly on the stuffy side, but it is nothing unusual. The heat is always abundant –no use complaining about it.

A quaint little youngster clad in simple cherry red play clothes stares up into the horizon, laughing to herself. She is about five or six –somewhere around there –but so innocent she is. Her knees are dirtied with wet, watered-down soil, for she had been romping about in the garden. An odd frown takes hold of her features as she takes notice; the girl brushes her legs off in a classy manner. Certainly she is dignified in conduct: a princess demands no less of herself. But, nevertheless, she rarely misses out on a chance for leisure. Her life, despite her title of royalty, is rather monotonous, especially in the eyes of a young child. It is not to say that she regrets what she was born with –actually, she enjoys showing it all off now and then. She is a bit of a braggart, we'll say.

After about a minute or so, the girl turns her face away from the sun and sighs depressingly. She is alone. There is nothing abnormal about that. Poor girl; perhaps she is worthy of some pity. Loneliness is her common ally: her father is much too busy to offer her any affection, and her mother is much too ignorant –it almost appears that the woman forgets that she even has a daughter these days. Her brother receives most of the attention; even he has no time to accompany her today. But, the girl tries her best to pay these faults no mind. Indeed, she never offers her feelings to anyone –no ears care to listen anyway. It does not matter. She has faith in herself; she will get her way someday.

Nothing entertains her now; she is somewhat jaded and uninterested. She paces the perimeter of the garden, occasionally practicing a quick kata or stance. Such actions are basically unnecessary: she already enthusiastically trained earlier this afternoon, but what harm could it do? It is her basic mindset to perfect even the most remotely unblemished tasks…

"Perfection is power..." A soft, almost melodious voice whispers. There is an amusing laugh on the side: it seems to have an air of overconfidence, or perhaps just a hint of excessive pride. It _echoes_, strangely enough…

The girl faces her companion. She smiles politely –her form of a proper salutation, but, with full awareness of her place, she bows down, her weight mainly balancing upon one knee. Once satisfied that she has gained her visitor's respect, she rises and rushes to him, sweetly offering a bear-hug to his wide waistline –that is all the farther she can reach, for he has an enormously tall frame. He, being a _good-natured_ gentleman, returns the girl's gesture, and with a quick, flashy grin, he squats down to her size, staring directly into her pure gold irises. His masculine hand pats her shoulder tenderly –it is rather shocking that his touch does nothing to even break her stance. Behind closed doors, he has a tendency to do that: it is not a big deal. After all, he just prefers to shatter the heart, not the bone.

He takes a seat in the grass, relieving the weight from his feet. His dazzling teeth shine as he extends his forearm.

"Sit down, child."

She does not hesitate. She smoothes out the wrinkles in her play clothes like a woman a few more years her senior –proper and poised –and sits next to him on his left. She is more than delighted to have her father's good company –best not anger him; he is doing her a favor, is he not?

Grasping his daughter under her armpits, he effortlessly lifts her up and places her in his lap. Stroking her unnaturally beautiful black tresses, he points to the simple blooming rosebush in front of them. He reaches without much difficulty and plucks one shrub rose off just an inch or so below its stem. His fingers are not cut from its thorns, despite how dangerously close they are from his flesh; perhaps even the flowers in the garden know better than to aggravate him.

He grins again, carefully handing the rose to the girl.

"You see this rose, Azula?"

She stares at it curiously, marveling at each individual petal. It shames her at first that she never really cared much for simple plants; she alters her opinions now, grasping the thing tenderly like a newborn child. She then turns to her father and nods.

He continues, "It is rather lovely, isn't it?"

The girl nods again, but more slowly and cautiously: she has no clue where her father is going with his words.

"The spirits brought flowers to our mortal world near the beginning for a reason. Do you know their purpose?"

She provides him with no response. It is an awkward feeling, being that she is always one to have her petite hand raised in the Academy. Of course, she is under enormous amounts of pressure at this moment: her father's good pleasure is hard to achieve at times –he does not always enjoy displaying his pride. Emotion is a mucky obstacle, at least to him, anyway.

"Try to understand, dear, that everything the spirits have offered us in the past holds particular significance in our lives, even if it goes unseen."

Azula continues to fall silent, but she does add a particularly adorable cock to her head to insert her diminishing curiosity. She wishes mightily that he could get to the point –she has a few stances she has yet to master.

Within seconds, however, he does catch her drift, but finds it impossible to reprimand her.

"The point is this: the rose is a symbol of love and tenderness. It is cherished by all who encounter such feelings."

"But, Father," she breaks her own silence. "I thought you told me that emotions are distractive to the essence of my bending?"

"You caught that, did you?" he cackles –_my, how observant the little tike is._ "You are correct, but having affection toward your nation and to your family fuels your fire. You're desire to bring safety and protection to our homeland is a great and wonderful thing. However, other unnecessary emotions do tend to cloud the bender's judgment. Take anger, for instance. Even though it may be any firebender's dream to take down the Avatar, that spineless menace, it is not meant to be performed out of anger. Your older brother, for example, has no self-control. By enforcing his rage into combat, he drains himself of essential strength. No wonder he is only a novice. You, however, have mastered levels even the elderly could only dream of, and you owe it to your restraint."

"Yes, but what does this have to do with the rose, Father?"

He pokes a finger at where her heart would be. "The rose is your heart. Let it be fueled by affection for your mother country…

"And its leader."

"That would be you."

"Yes. And as that, I have it in me to _conquer_ the rose."

"What do you mean, Father?"

He smiles, the corner of his jaw protruding menacingly.

"Come," he says, rising and grabbing her gently by the hand…

"Let me show you…"


End file.
